


Holding On and Letting Go

by SailorSol



Category: Titanic (1997)
Genre: Aftermath, Bechdel Test Pass, Female Characters, Female Friendship, Female-Centric, Friendship, Gen, New Beginnings, POV Female Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Starting Over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1926534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorSol/pseuds/SailorSol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pride would only leave her dead, and she had promised to live, to not let go no matter what. But she would not return to her mother, or Cal, or the life she had given up. She had the necklace, of course, but that was not something she was willing to part with, not unless she was entirely desperate, and she had not yet reached that point.</p>
<p>But she <em>was</em> desperate, if unwilling to debase herself to men or her family. There was one person that she felt she could go to, one person who would understand her desire to leave her past behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding On and Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> So then a random wild Titanic plot bunny bit me while I was driving in to work today, and I tried to tell myself I wouldn't write it. That was really effective, wasn't it?

The newly minted Rose Dawson spent her first week in New York City being constantly cold and constantly hungry.

The cold, she thought, was more of a memory; she hadn’t been properly warm since—since she and Jack had taken refuge in the cargo hold and found that car. Everything after that was fear and ice cold water and blue faces bobbing in the darkness, the sound of the whistle shrill. She had been one of the lucky few to be pulled from the water, but she was still numb, still floating on that piece of debris, Jack’s hands tight in hers.

The hunger was something new to her, a sharp ache and a spinning head and feeling too weak to even stand. She had never truly understood the kind of life Jack must have led until she found herself nameless, penniless, and with no prospect for earning money that didn’t involve selling herself as a whore.

Pride would only leave her dead, and she had promised to live, to not let go no matter what. But she would not return to her mother, or Cal, or the life she had given up. She had the necklace, of course, but that was not something she was willing to part with, not unless she was entirely desperate, and she had not yet reached that point.

But she _was_ desperate, if unwilling to debase herself to men or her family. There was one person that she felt she could go to, one person who would understand her desire to leave her past behind.

Which was how she found herself on the street outside a townhouse, Cal’s jacket still wrapped tight around her shoulders, feeling nothing at all like the woman she had been only a handful of weeks ago, her poise at the bottom of the Atlantic with so much else.

But what Rose DeWitt Bukater lacked in courage and confidence, Rose Dawson was determined to take charge of her life. So with a straightening of her posture, she strode to the front door and rang the bell.

She held her breath as she waited, hoping she hadn’t been wrong, that the house wasn’t just empty. But the door swung open to reveal a man in a neat suit.

“May I help you?” he asked.

Rose had to swallow twice before she could find her voice. “Please tell Ms. Brown that Rose De—Dawson is here to see her.”

The butler raised one eyebrow, but gestured for her to come into the foyer as he went to find his mistress. Rose knew Molly was a smart woman and would understand who was asking after her. Sure enough, it was a matter of moments before Molly was bustling into the foyer.

“Rose, darlin’, oh, it’s wonderful to see you!” Molly didn’t even hesitate to sweep Rose into a tight hug. Not at all used to physical affection, Rose felt stiff, like her limbs were once more frozen. But after several seconds in her warm embrace, Rose finally relaxed and clung to Molly. “We all thought you were dead.”

“I know,” Rose said, and she was surprised at how raw her voice sounded, just as weak as when she’d been calling for help. “I don’t want Mother or Cal…”

Molly was holding Rose at arm length now, hands still on her shoulders. “Oh, honey, you don’t need to cry, it’s all right, you’re safe now.”

Rose hadn’t even realized she’d started crying, but when she reached up, her cheeks were wet. She hadn’t cried since she’d been a child, hadn’t cried on _Carpathia_ when the terror had finally let go of her and she was left with the guilt of survival. The thought made her laugh now, desperate and breathless, and she barely realized as Molly led her into the sitting room and settled her into a chair near a roaring fire.

“I had to go back for him, Molly, I had to,” she found herself saying, trying to make the older woman understand. “They’d had him chained to a pipe, and the room was already half flooded when I got there, I knew he hadn’t stolen the stupid necklace, but we’d been on deck when we hit the iceberg and everything was going wrong when it had all been so perfect.”

“Shh, you don’t need to explain to me. I understand plenty,” Molly said, her knees pressed against Rose’s and her hands tight and warm around Rose’s, so unlike Jack’s slim artist’s fingers.

Rose just shook her head, because how could anyone possibly understand? She had gone back for him, and he’d died anyway. “I don’t know what to do any more. I can’t go back to Mother and Cal, and Jack’s gone, and what use am I except as a wife to some man? I don’t want that life, Molly, I want the life with Jack, flying airplanes and riding horseback astride and…” She had to stop, gasping for air like the night she’d run half the length of the ship; at least the air here wasn’t bitter cold, but Jack wasn’t here either to pull her back over the railing (to hold on next to her as they both went down).

“Don’t you worry about none of that now, Rose darling. You’re alive, and that’s what matters, and no one’s saying you have to be some man’s wife. I’ve helped plenty of women make lives for themselves, and I’ll help you too, just as if you were my own daughter.”

The butler entered the sitting room with a tea tray, filling the room with the smell of warm bread and hot tea, and Rose felt her stomach twist both from Molly’s generosity and the prospect of a hot, fresh meal. She took the handkerchief that Molly offered, dabbing at the tears that were still coming. “I would hate to be an imposition.”

“Nonsense,” Molly said, letting go of Rose’s hands long enough to take the teapot from her butler and pour them both cups, dropping rather a generous amount of sugar into one before handing it to Rose. The ceramic was frail but warm, and for the first time since that horrible night, she started feeling warm. “After what we went through, you and I are practically family. And don’t you worry about your mother and Cal, I won’t be the one to tell them you’re still alive, if that’s what you want. So you sit here and drink your tea like a proper lady, and then you’ll have a nice hot bath and a change of clothes, and we’ll sit down to discuss what Miss Dawson wants to do with her life.”

Molly was so matter-of-fact, the way she talked to everyone regardless of their station in life or how much money they had. So unlike how Rose had been raised, but comforting in a way her mother had never been. She managed a smile and restrained herself from gobbling down the fresh scones. “I can’t thank you enough. I’ll repay you, of course, once I’m on my feet—”

The older woman huffed and rolled her eyes. “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll take what I give you and have the life you wanted to have with that Jack of yours. And you’ll send me letters and picture postcards so I can pretend to be doing all those wonderful things with you. And you’ll grow fat and old and spit in ol’ Cal’s face.”

That made Rose laugh for real, and it startled her badly enough that she spilled her tea. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, taking a napkin to dab up the mess she’d made. “Just, I already did that. Cal tried to stop me from going after Jack, and I spit in his face.” Saying it out loud made it sound even more ridiculous, and she started laughing harder, and Molly joined her with her brash, loud, uncultured laugh that filled the room.

“Well good on you. Now finish your tea and get yourself cleaned up proper, and we’ll figure out the rest of it later.”

Rose nodded, finally feeling like she was on solid ground again, that the dark black water wasn’t trying to suck her down. The fire was cheerful and warm and the scone was crumbly and buttery and tasted better than anything she’d had in weeks except maybe that beer she’d had in steerage.

Warm, fed, and safe, Rose Dawson had the whole future in front of her.


End file.
